


Best Man

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brokenhearted Sherlock, Disguised Sherlock, Dissociation, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, He's disguised as Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Self-Harm, Typing that tag just broke my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So here was his John, without him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Man

Being repeatedly assaulted by the man he loved most in the world had very quickly taught Sherlock three things:

  1.        Anger can be an expression of grief.
  2.        The passage of time is perceived differently by different people.
  3.        That look of devastation in John’s shimmering, night-blue eyes was nothing Sherlock ever wanted to see again.



And having learned these three things in the course of an evening that left him bloodied and alone, Sherlock made himself a promise: He would do anything and everything in his power to assure that John Watson had a happy life.

So here was his John, without him.

Here was his John, with a new home and a new love and a whole new life, utterly unable to forgive him. His resentment of Sherlock’s cruelty, John’s lingering sense that Sherlock had betrayed and underestimated—and then abandoned—him was preventing John from being happy. So Sherlock did what Sherlock Holmes would have done. He put them in a scenario which appeared life-or-death, worked up his crocodile tears—on his knees! sobbing! begging with prayerful hands! He’d completely oversold it but it was just the sort of stuff John went for, and did he ever—and so manipulated John into absolving him. Played it off as a joke, because if John believed that his tears were real, that he needed John so badly he was willing to cry and plead, John would have known that Sherlock was different. For John to have a happy life, he must remain Sherlock Holmes, the man John knew—a wise and brave and cruel and heartless man. Not even a man. A machine.

John said he wanted to be married. So Sherlock planned his wedding. A perfect wedding. There were spreadsheets and web forum discussions and stacks of magazines and word-of-mouth references about florists and bakers and tailors and “full-service event producers.” He exchanged chummy texts with Mary all day, every day, even though it made his stomach churn and ache so much he’d even broken down and gone to Mycroft’s doctor on suspicion he was developing an ulcer (“Are you under a lot of stress at the moment? Many of my patients find an exercise routine is helpful for managing stress. Or perhaps a daily meditation practice.”). Bridesmaids’ dresses and shoes dyed to match. Table linens. Stemware. It was all so much nonsense and Sherlock lay awake every night wishing he could forget it but every morning there was only more of it. Sherlock Holmes had taken on The Case of the Best Friend’s Wedding and damned if he wasn’t going to solve it to everyone’s full satisfaction.

Drunk together alone at 221B, and John’s hand was on his knee and Sherlock wanted to scream, _This has got to stop because I am so so sorry I died and left you, but I am dying **right now** , John, can’t you see that I am dying in front of your eyes?_, but that would certainly not have made John any happier, because if John had ever loved him to begin with, he was over it, had moved on, wanted a happy life with Mary. So that hand on the knee; John’s splayed legs; his soft, affectionate stare, all of it flew right over the head of Sherlock Holmes, who did not understand love, or even lust, and certainly could not fathom them coming from his best friend, about to be married. And then the client came and saved them; Sherlock had been expecting her—he’d arranged it, just in case. Sherlock Holmes made a spectacle of himself and got them arrested, because he had to make even John’s stag night all about him.

Mrs Hudson going on and on about what a big day it was, end of an era, some friend of hers who left her wedding early and how it was never the same. Sherlock Holmes pretended not to even recognize that John’s wedding was important, was rude to Mrs Hudson, chased her out with his surliness. Sherlock took one look at his suit hanging on the door of his wardrobe, girding himself for the fight of his life—to let this go on, let John go, let him have what he said he wanted even though every cell in Sherlock’s body was shrieking alarms that this was all wrong, all wrong, and must stop—and he ran to sick up into the bathroom sink.

Two interminable hours with John at the church, in a stuffy little room like a floral-wallpapered prison cell, just waiting. John paced, and combed his hair with his fingers, checked to be sure there was nothing in his teeth. He asked Sherlock four times if he had the rings. They helped each other pin the boutonnieres on straight, picked imaginary lint off each other’s lapels. John’s forehead creased with distress. Sherlock Holmes reminded him everything was well in hand, everything would be perfect, without a hitch, and all he needed to think about now was keeping his hat brim straight and admiring his lovely bride. John smiled and his forehead smoothed out, and he thanked him, started to get effusive, but Sherlock Holmes was blind to these kinds of sentimental declarations of appreciation and friendly affection, and just at that moment excused himself to go check that the caterers were running on schedule. And he did that. But then Sherlock shut himself in the gents’ restroom and hit his head six times against the tile wall. He straightened his waistcoat, glared at himself in the mirror. Best Man Sherlock Holmes pulled open the door and Sherlock, in a last gasp attempt at self-preservation, vanished entirely.

“. . .three of you.” And it was like startling awake, that horrid feeling of having missed something, possibly having even been in danger but oblivious to it, the instant of panic before remembering who he is, and where, and  _why_. The shell, the mask, of Sherlock Holmes was cracking apart, and Sherlock couldn’t do it anymore, could not bear it for one single minute more. He’d done what he must to give John a happy life, but even thirty short seconds in this strobing, suffocating room was going to collapse him. His head ached. His eyes ached. His heart was pressed tight against his breastbone. He must flee or die.

And so he fled.

 

 

*

This story was remixed by FleurDeLis221B as the poem, [**Mantras: (Pain: a Meditation)**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3868117)


End file.
